Stilling Our Souls
by Lizzosaurus
Summary: When he was young, he'd loved thunderstorms. Lietbel. T for brief, platonic nudity.


When he was young, he'd loved thunderstorms.

Breathless as he was in the throes of the gods' might, Lithuania loved the terror of it all with a deep appreciation that could only be described in the quiet, dripping frogsong that followed.

He'd loved the smell then, too. Wet stone and soil and cold, crisp air that bathed his soul cleaner than any of Poland's gods - spirits, saints? he'd never paid attention in those days - ever could.

Ever _would_.

But the sweet musk of damp rye and wildflowers is lost to him now. It's gone sour, and all Toris can smell is the bitter tang of motor oil, the rubbish bin 5 stories below his flat window. This air is humid and stifling; it sweats and clings to his arms, the bridge of his nose, his lungs.

Even Rūta - affectionate a dog as she is - has decided not to sleep curled against his side tonight; her head rests atop his churning stomach but otherwise she lays sprawled across the bed like an old wrung-out towel.

He sees a thousand sights with each stuttering blue-white flash, a thousand sounds with each accompanying bang, but they are all equally unwelcome.

They bring a terror reeking of artifice - no longer reminding him of his blessed humanity.

Only the hot fear of death and man.

_Flashbang_, hot stifling black can't _breathe_ can't speak or scream or _cry_-

He closes his eyes when the room floods white again, screws them up tight and presses his hands hard over his ears like a holy seal.

The storm breaks through his barricade - a wave over dry sand - and he feels a sharp breath of air cleave away from his chest.

Quite suddenly, he also feels a pair of hands and, stiffening, shrinks away when fingers wrap gently around his wrists.

"Lietuva."

An old name, a bleary voice, and he blinks open his eyes.

Belarus had gone to bed with him - he doesn't know why he forgot, because it isn't as if his attention has left the breathing, angry ceiling in all the hours since they'd turned out the lights.

He hasn't slept in almost 3 days and nights - after all, she's here because she knows how much trouble he has sleeping in the early summer, sweltering with heat and too-sharp memories.

"Should I turn on the lamp?"

_Flashbang_, hot stifling black can't _breathe_ can't speak or scream-

No words form on his lips.

Natalya leans over him and sets the room alight with soft, comforting yellow.

Then she moves his hands - with less resistance this time - from his ears to his chest, where she intertwines his fingers with hers.

Rising, falling.

In the light of the bedside lamp he can see the delicate flower print of her nightshirt, her mismatched, striped briefs.

She looks gentle and human and real when she's sleep-tousled like this. Her hair frames her face in a mess of pale gold.

"You know, you're worrying your dog."

The bite of her awake-voice is still there; Toris sits up and scrubs at his sticky face. Rūta's collar jangles as she readjusts her head against his thigh, gazing at him with knowing brown eyes.

"Have I woken both of you? I'm sorry…"

His voice doesn't feel his own, he can already feel his throat closing up.

_Flashbang_, hot stifling black can't _breathe_ can't speak-

The last of his composure withers and he untangles his fingers from Natalya's, clamping them firmly over his jaw to keep the pathetic gasping sounds inside _locked up not here._

"_That_ woke us up, not you."

He can see her thoughtful frown through blurring vision before she puts a hand on his wrists and tugs at them once again, away from his shuddering lips this time.

"Tolya, it's okay."

He frowns back, frowns until he can't look at her anymore, doesn't have to.

"I'm acting like a child."

"Try again."

Violent white. It stabs through the linen curtains, staved off only by the lamplight's soft pool. It doesn't quite reach his chest anymore.

The thunder still does, throttling his heart in a suffocating chokehold.

"I'm acting like an infant."

"Still wrong."

She sighs, softly, and reaches up to thumb away the deep crease between his brows, her cool palm lingering on his hot, tacky cheek.

"Think of the gods."

"They don't remember us."

"They _do_."

He shakes his head.

"The gods - God - betrayed all of us."

"_Man_ betrayed us. Man is hateful and cruel, _the gods_ are just and forgiving."

Her words are drowned out by the next bang, and she grounds him with a firm grip on his thigh.

Rūta shuffles forward until she's fully in his lap and he tries to focus on her reassuring weight.

It doesn't work.

For a few moments he has nothing to stay, because Natalya hasn't spoken so deeply of her own convictions in over 3 centuries.

Her eyes are cold and deep, like a dark river, and smudged remnants of eyeliner exaggerate the hour.

She's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

And when she speaks again, she leans forward, brows knit together not with anger but headstrong understanding.

"The god of storm and sea brings rain to his creation, thunder is a way of expressing the breadth of his passion for giving new life to the earth – relief from pain."

Still at a loss for words, Toris looks down at his hands; his knuckles are too pronounced, knobby and skeletal and he wonders how much Natalya hates them.

As though she can read his thoughts, she sighs again; in a familiar shift of movement, he feels her take off her nightshirt.

It falls to the floor in a heap of cotton and dainty flowers.

"That's better, it's too humid for clothes tonight."

He watches numbly as she rolls out of bed and switches on the old yellowed fan squatting near the window. It hums to life with a slow, sluggish stutter.

_Flashbang_, hot stifling black can't _breathe_ can't-

His shirt comes off next; she peels it off and wads it up and before she discards it along with puddle of cotton petals the on the floor, he feels her gently pat the sweat from his brow.

He isn't embarrassed - though his back aches in the humidity, the twisted joints of his spine scream beneath twisted, screaming scars the longer he sits hunched over the too-hot sheets.

Rūta surveys them silently. Her intent, round eyes tell him that she's jealous she can't mimic them with her own thick kuvasz coat.

In his mind there echoes a faint memory, drawn near by Natalya's words, and closer still by the sticky nighttime breeze lathing over his bare skin in rhythm with the oscillation of the fan.

_Flashbang_, hot stifling black can't _breathe_-

Toris feels it heavy and horrid in his tired limbs, but the rest of him awash in the past.

He remembers the hot midsummer squalls of his youth.

He remembers standing in his carefully-nurtured fields, sweat trickling down his bare legs as a dark, rolling wall of respite from the sun's oppression crawled closer.

He remembers turning to Natalya, no more than a young girl with a sharp tongue and even sharper eyes, remembers taking in the fear behind her ever-present guise of disinterest.

And his own words echo in his ears: "Don't be afraid. The god of storm and sea brings rain to his creation, thunder is a way of expressing the breadth of his passion for giving new life to the earth."

_Relief from pain._

Natalya's hands are on his shoulders now, bigger and less brutal than he remembers.

"Feel that? Relief."

He does feel it; he feels the sudden, cold draft of the storm's dying breaths surrounding their naked bodies, urged forward by the creaky fan.

_Flashbang_, hot stifling black...

He feels Natalya easing him back, until they're lying down, his bones sighing into the downy mattress.

He feels love, sweet and cold and precious.

"Can I kiss you?"

"No other touching, I'm still hot as hell."

_Yes_, the words say.

So he twists to lean over Natalya and kiss her. Her lips are soft and yielding - this is the only time they're like this.

And it's beautiful.

Toris breaks it quickly - just so he can direct a shaky smile down at her. She frowns back at him, but the façade cracks in seconds, replaced with the faintest ghost of a grin.

It lights up the room in all the crevices the old 40 watt lamp doesn't reach.

A playful shove tips him over, into the softworn sheets, and for a few gracefully silent moments he feels safe again.

_Flashbang_, hot stifling...

"Hey! I said no touching!"

Ignoring the protest entirely, Toris rolls over to bury his head in Natalya's chest.

Warm breasts and warm heartbeat pressing against his cheek.

She doesn't push him away this time, not even when he wraps his arm around her waist and runs a hand up her washboard ribs.

Not even when their married skin begins to swelter.

_Flashbang_...

Instead, narrow fingers card through his hair and a soft voice rings in his ear like a song.

"Just go to sleep, you awful gremlin."

It takes time, but he does, lulled to slumber by the quiet thumping of his dog's tail against his shins and the quiet thumping of his partner's heart in his skull.

* * *

Okay so I'm going to try not to power up the excuse factory but I haven't published in 4 months. I know there's a lot of lackluster repetition but I feel I've lost the essential voice of my prose and I'm really struggling to find it again, very sorry guys.

Thanks to my dear friends for editing this piece and helping me get tf through it lol, y'all are champs 3

Anyway lietbel is the love of my life, I feel so happy to be freely posting _anything_ related to it again without Problematic People causing issues, so that's that!

1) I hope it made sense, 2) I hope you enjoyed the quick read!


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